


scarred hands (whole heart)

by madameofmusic



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 23:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10954743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madameofmusic/pseuds/madameofmusic
Summary: Nursey gets a knock on the head. Will is worried.





	scarred hands (whole heart)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is what happens when I try to come up with a title _not_ from a song.

The hands are scarred.

(The hands are always scarred, this is _hockey_ there are scars everywhere, Derek, get over yourself-)

The hands are scarred. Will’s hands, not _the,_ he has a name even though, Derek thinks, he’s fully intent on making Derek forget that, and Derek’s own, and everything else but the feel of his knuckles as they drag across cheekbone. Derek’s fucked.

Will snaps. “Nurse, hey, you in there?”

He blinks. “Yes.”

Will tilts his chin, hums as he frowns. He clicks his tongue, and then removes his hands from Derek’s face. “You’re fine.” He turns, and cups his hand over his mouth as he shouts. “Be a little careful next time, Tango! This is pick-up, not a full-on game.”

Tango calls something back, but Derek doesn’t hear. His head is swimming from where Tango knocked him over trying to get at the puck, and he fell, arms wheeling, right back onto the ice. He’d knocked his head, just a bit. It didn’t _hurt_ , per se, but it sure didn’t feel good. Will had been at his side at an instant, and Derek blames the way he looks in tight jeans and the green flannel that brings out the warmth in his eyes for the reason why he feels like he’s underwater. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to change into his pads yet, too busy talking to Ransom, before Derek had fallen and made a scene skidding across the ice.

“Will?”

Will turns back to him, and arches an eyebrow. “Yeah?” He looks surprised. Derek wonders why.

“My head feels funky?”

Will sighs. “Alright.” He sighs and pushes Derek down from where he’d tried to stand, and gives him a firm look before skating off. He comes back a few moments later, and yanks Derek to his feet. “We’re going to your dorm.”

Derek blinks. “Why?”

“Because you’re done for the day.” Derek casts a look over his shoulder, and then shrugs. He doesn’t especially mind. Pond hockey isn’t really his thing.

“Take your pads off.” Derek starts to undress, peeling off his pads by the side of the rink and tossing them back in his bag. Will does the same, going at it with a militaristic concentration, movements sharp and jerky.

Derek pulls his hoodie over his underarmor, and slings his bag over his shoulder. He follows will away from the pond and towards his dorm. Will walks a few steps in front of him, quiet, shoulders in a tense line. They’re usually like that though, so it’s not that that’s necessarily worrying to Derek.

It’s how _quiet_ he’s being, not even chirping Derek for getting railed into by Tango, and then being clumsy enough to fall onto his ass, even though being knocked into by huge hockey players is supposedly what he’s supposed to be good at, being defense and all.

“Are you mad at me?” The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

Will’s sure footsteps stutter, and he half turns to look at Derek over one shoulder. “No? Should I be?”

Derek shrugs. “You seem mad.”

Will gives him a smile, half-turn of his lips, self-depreciating. “I’m usually mad, right?”

Derek pushes the few extra feet until his steps line up with Will’s. “Not like this.” He frowns. “If you’re mad, you should tell me.”

They’d promised to start _talking_ about their issues, after a particularly huge riff at the beginning of the semester that culminated in neither talking to one another for near two weeks.

Will sighs, and they walk in silence all the way back to his dorm. Derek lets him stew in whatever he’s dealing with. Sometimes, he gets over it. Usually though, he gets over his _pride_ , and actually talks about what’s bugging him. Derek hopes it’s the latter.

Will waits for Derek to unlock the door, and set his bag down, before speaking. “I’m not mad.” He turns the light on, and takes Derek’s desk chair, watching as Derek flings himself on the bed.

“You seem mad.”

Derek watches Will wrestle with himself, lets him figure out how to phrase whatever he’s going to say. It’s a delicate balance they’ve reached, but Derek’s figured out to let Will have time to string together words (the reason they fought, mostly, is because Derek’s domain is words, and he wasn’t used to it not being other people’s).

“I’m concerned.” Derek lifts an eyebrow, gestures for him to continue. “When Tango hit you, and you went down, I was concerned. You hadn’t put on your helmet yet. We can’t afford to have you out.”

Derek snorts. “Worried Hall would pair you up with Whiskey?”

Will laughs. It’s hollow. “Yeah.”

Derek sits up, draws his knees to his chest and stares, pondering. “That’s not it though, is it? That’s not why you were concerned.”

Annoyance flashes over Will’s face. “Of course it was. Why else would I be concerned?”

Derek rolls his eyes, pushes himself until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, their knees a foot apart. He sticks his foot out to knock against Will’s. “You’re allowed to say you were concerned because we’re friends.”

Will huffs. “Sure. I was concerned because we’re friends.”

Derek grins, and reaches out to swat his shoulder. “That wasn’t so hard.” He leans back on his hands, and looks at Will. “My head doesn’t feel weird anymore. I didn’t actually, uh, hit it? So we can probably go back.” He didn’t think it ever felt weird because of any injury related purposes anyway. He doesn’t want to think about the way Will’s hands brushing concerned lines across his cheekbones and tilting his chin made him feel fuzzy and _stupid_ -

That’s not a road he can afford to go down.

Will frowns. “It’s not worth it to go back now, they’re probably almost done.” They probably weren’t, but Derek wasn’t going to argue. “Are you sure you’re head’s okay, though?”

Derek shrugs. “As okay as it’ll ever be.”

Will looks like he’s about to say something else, and then stands, abruptly. “Well, I guess I’ll go then.”

“Okay.” Derek stands, and hands him his bag. “Sorry I-”

“No, no it’s okay-”

“Really, though-”

Will sets a hand on Derek’s chest. “Really, it’s fine.”

Derek swallows, hard. “Alright.”

Will turns toward the door, and opens it, stopping in the open doorway. “Bye.”

Derek lifts a hand, confused. He feels like he’s been solving in a puzzle with only half the pieces, only parts of the picture available to him. The edge pieces are there, but the entire middle is… _gone_. Scattered.

A knock interrupts his musing. He opens the door. It’s Will.

“Fuck it.” Will says, and before Derek can ask, Will’s tossed his bag to the floor and crowded Derek up against the doorframe. “Can I-”

Derek watches as Will’s eyes flick to his parted mouth, and then back to his eyes. He barely gets the beginning of a _yes_ out before Will’s on him, hands cupping either side of his face, gentle, ever-so-gentle.

Derek blinks when Will pulls back, floored. “I-”

Will backs up. “Sorry, I just.” He rubs the back of his neck, frustrated and flushed with embarrassment. “I-”

Derek yanks him inside and slams the door behind him. “What the hell.”

Will goes for the doorknob, stuttering out half apologies mixed with sputtering. Derek bats at his hand. “Stop apologizing. What the hell?”

Will sighs, slumps against the wood of the door. “I was concerned because hockey is a dangerous sport, and I like you.”

Derek’s found some of the pieces, but there’s considerable portions of this puzzle missing. “And?”

“ _And_ every time you get hurt, I flip out. And today I saw you go down and you hadn’t put on your _fucking_ helmet yet, and what if you got a concussion, _Derek_ , that would be-”

“-Something that happens in the sport we play, Will.” Derek says, amused, and pleased. A warm feeling spreads through his chest, sickly-sweet affection for the man standing in front of him. “It’s gonna happen, it _has_ happened.” He steps closer.

“I know, it’s just.” Will looks up, meets Derek’s eyes. “I keep thinking that, I mean, what if you got hurt, and what if I never got the chance to tell you how much you mean to me? Not even, romantically. Just like, as a friend.”

Derek snorts, grins. “You don’t really press your friends up against doors and french them, Will.”

He buries his face in his hands, and lets out a frustrated noise, and then a high-pitched giggle. “I hate you.”

Derek closes the last of the space between them, settling his hands on Will’s hips and leaning in. Will drops his hands, and settles them on Derek’s arms. “I don’t think that’s true at all.”

Will smiles, leans closer. “Probably not.”

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's out of school and has time to write again! Expect a lot of stuff this summer (hopefully), including a piece for the [Kent Parson Birthday Bash](https://kentparsonbirthdaybash.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://whiskeytangofrogman.tumblr.com/), or drop me a prompt!


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